Chapter 5 - Morgan
I wake up to the sound of tiny feet thundering past my door and a high-pitched voice declaring, "I'M LATE! DADDY, I'M SO LATE!"
For a confused moment, I have no idea where I am. The bed is too soft, the room too dark, and there's definitely not supposed to be a child having a meltdown outside my door.
Then it comes back: Blackwater Falls. Broken car. Casey's house.
Six in the morning, and Riley is convinced she's late for pre-K.
"Riley, you're not late," Casey's voice filters through the door, calm but strained. "We have forty-five minutes before we need to leave. And keep your voice down, Morgan's still sleeping."
"But I can't find my purple shirt!"
"Because it's in the laundry. Wear the blue one."
"But it's PURPLE DAY!"
"Since when is it purple day?"
"Since I DECIDED!"
I should feel bad about being awake. I should probably put a pillow over my head and try to go back to sleep like a normal person who isn't used to living in a car where every sound echoes.
Instead, I find myself smiling.
This is what normal families sound like in the morning. The chaos, the negotiations over shirt colors, the gentle exasperation in Casey's voice as he tries to manage a tiny tornado with opinions.
Annie and I never had this. We were both quiet kids, the kind who got ourselves ready for school without being asked and ate breakfast in companionable silence while our parents read the paper.
But we'd talked about it sometimes. About how our future families would be different. Louder. Fuller.
*I want chaos,* Annie had said once. *I want kids who fight over the bathroom and leave their shoes everywhere and make me crazy. I want the mess.*
I blink hard and stare at the ceiling until the urge to cry passes.
More footsteps in the hallway. Riley's voice, slightly quieter now: "What if Morgan wants breakfast?"
"Then she'll come down when she's ready," Casey says. "Now go brush your teeth. And quietly."
"This IS quietly!"
I hear Casey sigh, and I decide to put him out of his misery.
I swing my legs out of bed, grab the hoodie I packed, oversized and comfortable, my traveling uniform, and pull it on over my tank top and sleep shorts before opening the door.
Riley freezes mid-sprint toward what I'm guessing is the bathroom, her eyes going wide.
"You're AWAKE!"
"Riley—" Casey appears at the top of the stairs, wearing jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, hair damp like he just got out of the shower. He sees me and winces. "I'm so sorry. I told her to be quiet—"
"It's fine," I say quickly. "I'm usually up early anyway."
It's not entirely a lie. Six months of sleeping in my car has made me a light sleeper, attuned to every sound and movement. Actual walls and a door are a luxury, but old habits die hard.
Riley is still staring at me. "Do you like pancakes?"
"I... yes?"
"Daddy makes really good pancakes on Wednesdays."
"It's Tuesday," Casey says.
"It could be Wednesday pancake Tuesday."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"It makes PERFECT sense!"
I'm trying not to laugh as I follow them downstairs, Riley chattering about the merits of Wednesday pancakes on Tuesday while Casey mutters something about "four-year-old logic" under his breath.
The kitchen is brighter in the morning, sunlight streaming through the window over the sink and making everything warm and golden. There's a coffee maker on the counter already brewing, and the smell alone is enough to make me want to weep with gratitude.
"Coffee?" Casey offers, already reaching for a mug.
"Please. Yes. Thank you."
He pours me a cup and slides it across the counter, and our fingers brush when I take it. It's nothing. Barely a touch. But I feel it anyway, a spark that travels up my arm and settles somewhere in my chest.
I take a sip of coffee to cover my reaction and nearly moan. It's perfect, strong and hot and exactly what I need.
"Good?" Casey asks, and there's something in his voice that makes me look up.
"Really good," I manage.
Riley has climbed into her chair at the table and is swinging her legs impatiently. "So, are we having pancakes or not?"
Casey breaks eye contact first, turning toward the fridge. "We're having cereal because it's Tuesday and I have to be at the shop by seven-thirty."
"But what about Morgan?"
"Morgan can have cereal too, or she can make herself whatever she wants. She's a guest, not a prisoner."
"Cereal's great," I say quickly. "I'm not picky."
This is an understatement. I've been living on gas station sandwiches and protein bars for six months. Actual cereal in an actual bowl feels like fine dining.
Casey pulls out a box of something colorful and probably ninety percent sugar, then pauses and looks at me. "Unless you want something healthier? I think there's oatmeal somewhere..."
"That's perfect," I say, gesturing to the cereal.
He looks skeptical but pours me a bowl anyway, along with one for Riley and one for himself.
We eat in a silence that's surprisingly comfortable, broken only by Riley's occasional commentary on the shapes in her cereal ("That one looks like Mr. Shellby!") and the clink of spoons against bowls.
I can't remember the last time I had breakfast with other people. Really sat down and ate, not just grabbed something and kept driving.
It's nice. Almost painfully nice.
"So," Casey says eventually, "I'm dropping Riley at pre-K and then heading to the shop. You're welcome to come with me if you want to grab your stuff from the car, or you can hang here. Whatever works."
"I should probably get my things," I say. "I didn't pack enough last night."
"Understandable." He stands, collecting the bowls. "We leave in about twenty minutes, if you want to get ready."
I nod and head back upstairs, hearing Riley launch into a story about her friend Jacob and some complex playground drama that apparently rivals a soap opera.
In the guest room, I dig through my duffel for clean clothes. My options are limited. I packed for living in a car, not staying in someone's house, but I find jeans that are relatively unwrinkled and a green henley that's soft from too many washes.
Good enough.
I'm pulling my hair into a ponytail when I catch sight of myself in the small mirror above the dresser.
I look... tired. There are shadows under my eyes that weren't there six months ago. I've lost weight in a way that doesn't look intentional, but I’m still chubby.
Annie wouldn't recognize me like this.
Or maybe she would. Maybe she'd see exactly what this trip has done to me: the grief I'm carrying, the exhaustion that has nothing to do with miles driven and everything to do with the weight of missing her.
*You need to take care of yourself,* I can almost hear her saying. *You can't honor me by running yourself into the ground.*
"I'm trying," I whisper to my reflection.
My phone buzzes. My mom.
*Good morning, sweetheart. How are you doing?*
I text back: *Good. The mechanic's house is really nice. He has a daughter who's convinced I'm a princess.*
*That's because you are. How's the car?*
*Not great. Might be here for a bit.*
*That's okay. Take your time. Maybe it's good to stop for a while.*
I stare at the message, reading between the lines. My mom's been worried. Not enough to try to make me come home, but enough that I can hear it in her voice during our weekly calls.
*Maybe,* I text back. *Love you.*
*Love you more.*
I tuck the phone away and head back downstairs, where Casey is helping Riley into a tiny backpack covered in cartoon characters.
"Ready?" he asks when he sees me.
"Ready."
The drive to Riley's pre-K is short. Everything in this town is short, and filled with Riley's continued campaigning for Wednesday pancakes on Tuesday.
"We could make it a NEW tradition," she's saying. "A special one just for when Morgan's here."
"Morgan's not going to be here long enough to establish new traditions," Casey says, but his voice is gentle.
Riley twists in her car seat to look at me. "But you COULD stay longer. If you wanted."
"We'll see," I say, because I don't have the heart to tell her no outright.
The pre-K is a cheerful yellow building with a playground out front and children's artwork displayed in every window. Casey parks and gets out to unbuckle Riley, who immediately spots a friend and races toward her.
"Riley! Coat!" Casey calls after her, but she doesn’t seem to hear him. He sighs and tucks it under his arm. "I'll give it to Miss Amy."
I follow him inside, where a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and graying hair greets us.
"Good morning, Casey. And who's this?"
"Morgan," Casey says. "Friend of ours. Morgan, this is Miss Amy."
"Nice to meet you," I say, shaking her hand.
Miss Amy's eyes sparkle with unmistakable curiosity. "Friend, hmm? Riley sprinted past me and was very excited about a princess coming to stay."
Casey's ears turn slightly red. "Her car broke down. She's staying in our guest room while I fix it."
"How kind of you." Miss Amy is definitely filing this away for later gossip. "Well, Morgan, welcome to Blackwater Falls. I hope you enjoy your stay."
"Thank you."
Riley appears long enough to hug Casey goodbye and get her coat before disappearing into the classroom.
Back in the truck, Casey lets out a long breath.
"Sorry about that. Miss Amy means well, but she's also the town's primary information network. By lunchtime, everyone will know you're staying with me."
"Is that... bad?"
"Not bad, exactly. Just... people talk in small towns. They'll make assumptions."
"About us?"
He glances at me, then back at the road. "Yeah."
"What kind of assumptions?"
"The kind where we're dating."
"Oh."
"I can set the record straight if it bothers you," he says quickly. "Tell people the actual situation."
"No, it's—I don't mind. I mean, I'm not going to be here long enough for it to matter, right?"
"Right."
There's a pause that feels loaded with something neither of us is saying.
"For what it's worth," Casey adds, "most people here are friendly. Nosy, but friendly."
"That's nice," I say, meaning it.
We pull up to the shop, and Casey kills the engine but doesn't get out immediately.
"So, about the job thing," he says. "There's a diner in town. Murphy's. Old guy who runs it, been there forever. He's usually looking for help, especially with the breakfast and lunch rush."
"Murphy's," I repeat.
"Yeah. Fair warning, Murphy can seem a bit suspicious at first. Gruff, doesn't say much, watches people like he's trying to figure out if they're going to steal the silverware."
I laugh nervously. "That's... encouraging."
"But he's a good guy," Casey continues quickly.
"Really good, actually. Everyone in town loves him.
He just takes a minute to warm up to new people.
Once he does, he's loyal as hell. Gave me a discount on meals for the first six months I was here when he found out I was a single dad trying to get the shop off the ground. "
Something warm spreads through my chest at that image. Casey, new to town, probably exhausted and overwhelmed, and this gruff old man quietly helping him out.
"That's really sweet," I say.
"Murphy would punch me for calling him sweet, but yeah." Casey smiles. "Anyway, if you want, I can walk you over there later. Introduce you. He trusts my judgment, so that might help."
"You'd do that?"
He looks at me like it's a strange question. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I?"
Because most people wouldn't. Because in my experience, people are kind in small doses but rarely go out of their way. Because I've been on my own for six months and I've forgotten what it feels like to have someone in my corner.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
Casey nods and gets out of the truck, and I follow him into the shop.
The fluorescent lights flicker on, illuminating the waiting area with its mismatched chairs and ancient magazines. Casey flips the sign to "Open" and boots up the computer while I stand there, unsure what to do with myself.
"Your car's in bay two," he says, nodding toward the garage. "Help yourself to whatever you need."
I walk to the bay and open the back door of my Civic, confronting the reality of six months condensed into a small space. It's organized. I'm not a complete disaster, but there's still a lot. Clothes, camping gear, books, the cooler.
I already have Annie's journal. I grabbed it last night, couldn't leave it in the car overnight even though I knew it would be safe. It's sitting in my duffel back at Casey's house, tucked between layers of clothes.
Now I just need the practical stuff.
I pull out a duffel bag and start filling it with more clothes—jeans, shirts, underwear, my one nice sweater. Then toiletries from the front seat: shampoo, conditioner, the fancy face wash my mom sent me that I've been rationing.
My laptop goes in next, along with the charger and the portable hard drive that has all my photos. Then a few books, because most days I can't sleep without reading, and the small bag of jewelry I never wear but can't seem to leave behind.
It's strange, sorting through my life like this. Deciding what comes with me into Casey's house and what stays here in this broken-down Honda. Like I'm separating who I was from who I'm going to be, at least for the next few weeks.
I'm zipping up the bag when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Find everything?" Casey asks.
I turn. He's leaning against the doorframe of the bay, arms crossed, watching me with that same unreadable expression from this morning.
"Yeah. I think so."
"You sure? I can store the car inside if you're worried about anything getting stolen, but honestly, crime's not really a thing here. Mrs. Patterson left her purse on a park bench last month and someone turned it in to the sheriff with all the cash still inside."
I smile at the image. "That's... really nice."
"Or really boring, depending on how you look at it." He pushes off the doorframe. "You good to hang out here for a bit? I've got a few things to finish up, and then we can head over to Murphy's if you want."
"I can help," I offer. "With the shop stuff, I mean. I don't know anything about cars, but I can answer phones or organize or... something."
Casey tilts his head, considering. "You really want to?"
"Better than sitting around feeling useless. Think of this as my way of saying thank you"
"You're not useless." He says it firmly, like it's important that I believe him.
"But if you want to help, I won't say no.
Phone's been ringing off the hook this morning.
Couple people wanting appointments, one guy asking if I do alignments, which I don't but I can refer him. You comfortable taking messages?"
"Absolutely."
He shows me the ancient appointment book. Actual paper, with a pen attached by a string, and explains the system, which is basically "write down name, number, and what they need."
"Simple enough?" he asks.
"Very."
"Great. I'll be in the back if you need me."
He disappears into the garage, and I settle into the chair behind the front desk.